


Five Times...

by rei_c



Series: Cannibalism Aside (Samn) [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John, Affection, Big Brother Dean, Blood, Blood and Gore, Caring John Winchester, Companionable Snark, Demonic Possession, Diners, Exorcisms, Explicit Language, Family Issues, Feeding, Food Issues, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Hand Feeding, Harvelle's Roadhouse, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internal Monologue, Jealous Sam Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Knives, Latin, M/M, POV Outsider, Parent Ellen, Parent John Winchester, Past Character Death, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Ellen, Protective John Winchester, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reading Aloud, Sam Winchester is a Little Shit, Sandwiches, Secrets, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Sibling Incest, Soup, Weapons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times that someone notices how Sam eats -- and one time someone does something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jim Murphy (Ages 9 & 5)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what to say anymore.

Jim stands up, pinches the bridge of his nose when he hears the rumble of the Impala outside, getting louder as it approaches. He's not entirely sure he's ready for this, keeping those boys for three weeks. He hasn't seen them in a couple years, Sam still clinging to Dean like he was a baby -- and Dean liked it that way. It was odd and it's stuck with Jim, darn near haunted him every time he thinks of the Winchesters and the way John had just let it go, shrugged and said, "He's good with Sam. I dunno. It works for now." Jim had wanted to say something but John looked worn and tired and halfway to death himself, so Jim had let it go, let that motley little family leave. 

Now, as he's opening the front door to the parsonage, watching as three car doors open, he realises that John just let it go. Dean slides out of the front passenger seat, shoving a walkman in the back pockets of his jeans, and by the time the back door's open all the way, Dean squats a little and Sam jumps on his back, climbs up like a spider monkey. When Dean stands up, hands under Sam's butt while Sam's got his face buried in the curve of Dean's neck, Jim's pretty sure he's gaping. 

John follows his gaze, turns back to Jim and shrugs before he pops the trunk and pulls out two duffels. Dean starts up the walk and comes to a stop ten feet from Jim, looks up at him, and Jim meets a nine-year-old's eyes and has to fight not to step back. There's nothing human in those eyes, just some sort of leashed hunger, animalistic and wild, ready to fight and eager to kill. Jim swallows, _really_ wishes he hadn't agreed to this because he's nowhere near ready. 

"Dean," Jim says. 

Sam murmurs something in Dean's ear, makes Dean grin, and Jim's honestly surprised not to see blood on the kid's teeth. This is. He's _nine_. "Hey, pastor," Dean says, and then murmurs back to Sam. _No, c'mon_ , it sounds like, but the tone of the words is all wrong, is all -- other. 

Sam responds to it, dropping down Dean's back to the ground and landing like a cat, right on his feet. He shakes his head and Dean brushes the bangs out of Sam's eyes, the touch affectionate, loving, but almost -- no. No, Jim's not even going to think it. Sam looks up at Jim, then, and this time Jim _does_ step back. 

Where Dean was wild, Sam's controlled, where Dean's hungry, Sam's nothing but cunning, where Dean seems like he'd pull someone apart for the sheer joy of it, Sam looks as though every other person besides his brother is there just to assuage his curiosity and he honestly wouldn't care if they were alive or dead. His eyes are dark, cold, empty, and the pair of them together, it's disturbing, to say the least. 

"Hi, Pastor Jim," Sam says, and there's no way a tone of voice like that should come out of anyone, much less a five-year-old. 

"Holy Mary, mother of god," Jim whispers. 

Dean laughs and Sam smiles, just a little thing, and Jim's finding it hard to believe that they're children at all. 

"Jim," John says, dropping the duffels at Dean's side. "I appreciate this, really do." 

"Least I can do," Jim says, but he's pretty sure that all debts between them are cleared after this. 

John puts one hand on each of his boy's shoulder, turns them to face him, drops to one knee. John loves his kids, Jim knows, but he was never made to be a single parent and a hunter at the same time. 

"Now, boys," John says, "you be good. Listen to Jim. Sam, I want you to work on your Latin. Dean, target practice."

 _Thank god_ , Dean says. 

Jim waits for John to say something, because he's strict with them, doesn't tolerate back-talk or misbehaviour, but John just keeps going like he didn't even hear Dean. 

"Three weeks, max," he says. "And once this is done, we'll find a place to settle in for a couple months, okay? I'll call when I can." 

He kisses Sam's hair, then Dean's forehead, and stands up, nods at Jim. Jim nods back, reading everything he needs to in that one look, and then John gets in the car and drives away. 

Dean and Sam turn back to him, stare at him for a moment, no pretence, and Jim shifts, angles his body to the house. "Come on in, then, boys. Let's get you settled and then dinner. I have mac-and-cheese in the oven -- homemade," and he winks, adds, "Extra cheese. Don't tell my housekeeper; it'll be our secret."

"Awesome," Dean says. "Thanks." He bends down, picks up the small duffel and puts it on Sam's back, then lets Sam clamber up him again before he picks the other one up. 

"Need any help?" Jim asks, offering belatedly, realising he really shouldn't be making the kids carry their bags, especially when Dean's got both of them _and_ Sam. 

Dean settles the weight, balances with it, asks Sam, _Good_? and when Sam says yes, Dean looks back at Jim, says, "Lead on." 

\--

Jim takes them up to the guest room, gestures at the two twin-size beds, and says, "I know it's not much, but it's something. Bathroom's down the hall, there are towels in there for you, and we'll eat in about half an hour, sounds good?" Both of the boys nod -- in unison. "Great. I'll be downstairs if you need anything," and he's ashamed to admit he goes in a rush. 

\--

Twenty-five minutes later, Jim pulls the mac-and-cheese out of the oven, sets it on the counter to cool just a little. He's made a salad as well, just in case, and set the table, put out glasses of milk. "Food's on!" he yells, and goes about serving up three plates. He expects to hear feet upstairs, pounding down the steps, but when he turns around he nearly has a heart attack. They're standing in the doorway, watching him, got down here completely silent in an old house made of wood that creaks whenever Jim turns his head. 

"Great," he says, weakly, and puts two plates down, gestures at those seats. 

It's a small table, really only good for two -- Jim doesn't have many visitors, not here, at least -- and things are cramped when he brings over his plate. The boys are still standing there, Sam looking at Dean, Dean at Sam, and Dean sighs, rolls his eyes, and pushes one of the chairs over a little, pulls another right next to it. He moves the dishes, too, and then raises an eyebrow at Sam. 

Sam grins, so fast that if Jim hadn't been watching for a reaction, he would have missed it, but Dean responds to it like Sam just gave him the world. 

They sit down, practically pressed up together, and Jim swallows as he sits down across from them. He bows his head and prays, and when he's done, Dean picks up his fork and starts to dig in. Jim does as well and he's hungry enough that it takes him a couple bites to realise that Sam hasn't moved. 

"Everything okay?" Jim asks. "I didn't even -- you're not lactose intolerant, are you, Sam?" 

"No, sir," Sam says, soft, but he doesn't move to touch his fork, his calm, steady gaze making Jim shift in his chair. 

Dean's brow is furrowed, just a little, but then his eyes open wide and his mouth parts, just a little. _Even Jim_? he asks, like he's put the last piece in a puzzle and can't believe the picture he's made. Sam shrugs like that's an answer, and Dean -- Dean _glows_. 

Jim's hand drops slowly to the table, fork loaded with pasta, as he watches Dean spear a couple pieces of macaroni and blow on it before he offers the food to Sam. Sam looks at his brother, Dean nods, says, _Go ahead_ , and Sam opens his mouth, lets Dean feed him. 

"Sam," Jim says, doesn't know how else to follow that so it's almost a relief when Dean interrupts him. 

"It's okay," Dean says. "I don't mind."

\--

Dean feeds Sam through dinner, one bite for him, one bite for his younger brother, and Sam won't drink out of his glass, it has to be Dean's. All through the meal, he keeps his eyes fixed on Dean but flinches at every noise Jim makes, and as soon as they're done eating, Sam disappears. 

"Don't be offended," Dean says. "It was good. Even Sammy thought so." 

"How do you know?" Jim asks,. Dinner was silent apart from that initial exchange, no words from anyone at all. 

Dean gives him a crooked grin, says, "He said so. Want me to clean up?"

Jim blinks at the sudden conversational change, says, "No, it's okay," on autopilot. "You two've had a long day. Go on, do what you want, but you and Sam have to be in bed by nine." 

"Yes, sir," Dean says, and he goes after Sam, Jim's guessing, just as silent as his younger brother. 

Jim lets out a shaky breath, sits on the edge of the table and prays for patience. 

And courage.

\--

The three weeks pass by quickly, thank the Lord. The boys wake up early, come down for breakfast, and Dean cooks for Sam, nothing special but he's _nine_. Sam eats Dean's food, though, doesn't even hesitate, though he does poke at the toast the first morning he's there. 

They generally disappear between breakfast and lunch -- sometimes Jim hears gunshots -- and then come back for lunch every day when Jim's holding office hours at the church next door, on purpose, he thinks. They're out of sight all afternoon, until dinner, where Dean samples the food first and then feeds Sam the way he did that very first night, and then they're gone again until they come find him at quarter-to-nine and tell him goodnight. Jim lets them go, lets them have their space, doesn't even mention it, doesn't try to find out what they're doing. 

\--

One afternoon he stumbles on them, Sam in the living room, curled up at one end of the couch reading, while Dean sits on the floor right below him, polishing his weapons. They're both looking up when Jim comes into the room, must've heard him, and Jim walks across the room, to his own bookshelves, cautiously, warily. 

He finds the book he's looking for, turns, and sees the title of the book Sam's reading, _Resurget Ex Favilla_.

"Can you _read_ that?" he blurts out, first, and then, "You're a little young to be reading that, Sam, don't you think?"

Sam looks at him over the book -- the thing's bigger than him -- but doesn't say anything, just gives Jim the most dismissive, disgusted look Jim's ever seen. 

"My little brother here's fluent," Dean says, proud like a parent showing off an honour's student. "So why shouldn't he?"

Because that book is one of the bloodiest accounts of the early European witch hunts? Because there are methods of torture outlined in that book that haven't been used in a thousand years? Because the details of interrogations are more than just evil, they're practically Satanic? Because Jim had nightmares after he read the first chapter, and it looks like Sam's halfway through the book? 

Pick one. 

They're both waiting for an answer and Jim opens and closes his mouth a few times, has no idea what to say. "Okay," he says, weakly, and leaves the room as quickly as his pride will let him. He stands outside in the hallway for a moment, mostly to catch his breath, but he also hears voices, so Jim calms himself, listens. 

_Want me to keep going_? Sam asks. 

_Sure_ , Dean replies, and Jim can hear him get back to polishing the guns. 

Sam doesn't, though, not for the longest moment through which Jim holds his breath. Finally, Dean snorts, says, _He ain't gonna leave until you start_ , and Jim flinches. 

They know he's there. They know he's standing there, out of sight, around the corner, eavesdropping on them. How in the name of God do they know? 

_Fine_ , Sam grumps, and then he does start reading, out loud, in Latin. His tone is smooth and even, doesn't struggle over any of the pronounciations; there are seminarians who would kill to read half as good as Sam does and the child is only _five_. 

Dean understands him, too, because he stops Sam almost immediately, says, _What d'you think of that one_? 

Sam sighs, says, _Messy, Dean. Just like all of your favourites._

 _Yeah_ , Dean says, _but I ain't thought about using a hook like that. Somethin' new._

Sam sighs, there's the sound of a short tussle, maybe, and finally asks, _Can I keep going_?

 _Sure, princess_ , Dean says. 

Jim flees. 

\--

He checks on them that night, convinced that the two will be having nightmares, maybe Sam'll be crying, upset, _something_ to prove that they're just kids, that _something_ can affect them. 

He doesn't find that, though. He finds them both sleeping easily -- in the same bed, curled up around each other, no space between them. There are two beds in the room but one of them is clearly unused except as a place to hold their duffels and dirty laundry pile, so it's not a comfort thing after the book. Jim can hardly believe it, wonders how John can let this go, let this happen, because they're together as if they've always been together, like they're one soul in two bodies and trying to get back to a place where they can be one again. 

Jim's the one who has nightmares that night, and he's ragged in the morning when he stumbles down the steps for breakfast. Sam and Dean are at the table, eating, and Jim sees it again, the way they have to be in physical contact with each other, the way neither of them lets the other out of their sight, the way they have their own language that's more than words. 

"Morning, pastor," Dean says, and he'd used raspberry jelly on his toast because his teeth are red. 

Jim nods, slowly, and the two go back to eating, Dean's left hand on Sam's right thigh, Sam's right foot tangled around Dean's left leg. It's not right -- but it's not Jim's place either, so he gets a cup of coffee and goes to the church, sits in one of the back pews and prays while he sips. 

\--

John comes back nineteen days after he drops the boys off, has a bandage winding around one arm but otherwise looks mostly whole. "They behave?" John asks, his first words, not even a hello. "And study like I asked?"

"Yeah," Jim says. "Pretty sure your kids can out-Latin anyone who doesn't work in the Vatican, too." He pauses, says, "John." 

"I know," John says, holding up a hand, cutting Jim off. 

Jim shakes his head in disagreement, pushes to say, "Sam won't eat anything unless Dean gives it to him. _Nothing_ , John, not even candy." 

John nods, says, "Yeah, I know. It's pretty much always been like that. Caution -- that's one thing I won't have to train into Sam." 

The instant reflex is to say that this isn't caution, it's Sam distrusting the entire world apart from his brother, that the boys shouldn't be trained, shouldn't be raised like warriors, because they're already bad enough. They don't need help like that. They should be locked up -- not for their safety, but for the world's. Jim can't say that, though, can't lay more guilt down on John when the man's tired, just got back, still half-crazed with the loss of his wife. Maybe it's not a surprise that the kids turned out this way. 

"They're packed," Jim says. "Went upstairs for their stuff the second they heard the car. You're welcome to stay here tonight, John. You look beat; come in, have some food and a drink or two, sleep under a real roof for once." 

John looks honestly tempted but then his gaze flicks over Jim's shoulder and his eyes shine, soft smile on his lips. "Hey, boys," John says. "Missed you." 

Jim stiffens; those kids are like ghosts. 

"Missed you too, dad," Dean says. 

He's quickly followed by Sam asking, "You're okay?" 

"Just fine," John says. He lets out a breath, asks, "You ready to hit the road? I was thinking maybe we'd head down south for a while. Sound good?" 

Jim steps to the side, looks at the kids just in time to see Sam and Dean have an entire, wordless conversation in less than three seconds. 

"Sounds good," Dean says. "But we're gonna need the books for the next grade pretty soon, and we used the PO Box in Ohio for that." 

"We'll order 'em tonight, swing by Akron on our way down," John says. He pauses, then asks, "The next grade? Already?"

Sam nods, solemn for such a small child, and Dean grins, bouncing on his feet. "We started doing algebra, dad, and I really, really like it. Can we do stats when we get to high school? And calculus?"

John laughs, a low and rumbling thing of pride and happiness and love, so much love that it makes Jim ache to know that the boys -- they love their father but not like that, not that much. "'Course, Dean. But give me at least a couple years before you need all that, okay?" 

"Deal," Dean says, and then he and Sam brush past Jim, each of them carrying their own duffel. They stop when they get to their father, one on each side of John, and turn to lean into him, looking at each other across John's stomach before they say, in unison, "Thank you, pastor." 

"My pleasure," Jim says. 

He's going to have to repent for that lie later because he has never meant any words less. 

Jim watches them get packed up, watches as Dean slides in the front with his father and Sam in the back, the furthest apart Jim's ever seen them. Sam looks out of the window, meets Jim's eyes, and the way he tilts his head, the way he studies Jim, the way he finally grins, wide, like one of Dean's excited smiles, is horrendous.

When the Impala leaves, Jim waits until the rumble disappears and then collapses onto the front step, head in his hands as he starts to weep.


	2. Clara Nebworth (Ages 13 & 9)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara Nebworth has never seen the family walking into her diner before.

Clara looks up as the bell rings, automatic reaction at this time of night. Three am in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska -- she doesn't generally see a lot of people here, apart from the usual post-bar crowd, the truckers with dedicated routes who always stop in for coffee, the few insomniacs and vets who need Clara's maternal instincts and a warm plate of pancakes. They're nothing fancy, out here, but they're good and kind and always willing to welcome someone -- even at three in the morning. 

"Take a seat wherever you'd like, boys," she says, eyes on the family that's straggling in. The dad's in the rear, looks like some of the guys down at the Legion, scruffy and half-asleep but taking in the doors and windows, assessing the other customers -- really just Earl and Larry bullshitting at the end of the bar like normal for this time of night. He's handsome, no denying that, but he's got the look of a man with PTSD, maybe. Clara takes in the wedding ring and lack of wife, the two kids, and feels her heart break. 

The older kid's in front, leading them to a booth in the corner. He's got wide open eyes, bright, grins at her as they walk past, dipping his head a little. It's polite, sure, and friendly, but something about that smile is -- unsettling. Clara's eyes pick out the hole in his jeans over the knee, the faded Metallica t-shirt, the military-short haircut, but also the new shoes, the warm-looking jacket, the confident way he moves. Dad's exhausted, then, maybe broke, but trying to do the best he can for his kids. 

That opinion is only cemented in Clara's mind as she takes in the last of their trio, the younger brother, tiny, too -- it's hard to pin down an age for him, probably somewhere between six and nine. Thin but lean in the way of hungry coyotes, shaggy hair that curls and floats around his ears, jeans and hoodie, hands pushed down deep into the pockets. Shy, maybe, and judging by the way his brother and father bracket him, overprotected, too. He doesn't look at her directly but does shift his head in her direction, enough to see her out of his peripheral vision. Clara makes a guess, figures that the kid's scared, clingy, was maybe involved in whatever took his mom away. 

She must have been beautiful, though, because both of those boys are. The older one, he'll grow into it, into that wide, pretty smile and the strut in his walk. Clara's seen boys like that before, seen boys like that grow up to be men, and she bites back a smile as she suddenly floods with amused pity for the dad. That kid's gonna be a handful, that's for sure. The little one -- he's gonna get tall. Real tall. Mother of six, grandmother of ten, former teacher, she knows these things, winces at the thought of the growing pains that poor child's gonna suffer through. 

Clara waits until they're settled -- youngest in the middle, back to the exact corner of the room, brother close on one side with his back to the door, father a little bit further away with his back to the wall on the other. The dad looks okay with this arrangement, looks like it's something normal, and now Clara's intrigued. She grabs three menus, fills a coffee cup, and walks over, sneakers squeaking on the floor.

"Mornin'," she says, and slides the coffee in front of the dad, hands out menus. "Can I get you boys something to drink?"

The older one looks at her, says, "Just water, please." 

Clara nods, turns her gaze to the little one. He's got the menu in his hands, is studying it pretty hard, and it's almost too tall for her to see his face. She can, though, and frowns just a little when he doesn't respond, doesn't even look at her. Deaf, possibly? She hadn't seen any of the three use sign language but, come to think of it, they didn't talk much except to say hi. 

"Sam," the dad says, and his tone is tired but resigned. Not deaf, then. Just shy like she first thought. 

"He's fine," the older one tells Clara. "We'll share." 

The father sets his menu down, says, "Dean, we've talked about this." 

Clara steps back, unwilling to get involved in a family argument, feels bad that she provoked it in the first place. "I'll go get that water, you look over the menus. Be right back." 

She gets an odd feeling, turning her back on them, but then Earl says, " _Bullshit_ ," in a volume that echoes around the empty diner. Clara smiles, shakes her head, and smacks the back of Earl's head when she goes around the corner of the bar to fill one of the big glasses with ice and water. 

"What?" Earl asks, faux-innocent. 

Clara tilts her head, says, "We got kids in here, Earl, so watch your language."

"Yeah, Earl," Larry says, mocking. "Watch your language." 

"Watch my fist," Earl snaps back, but his tone lacks heat, lacks any kind of actual threat. 

Still, it catches someone else's attention enough for Clara to see movement out of the corner of her eyes. She looks, sees the little kid staring right at her, and shivers like someone walked over her grave. Those eyes are -- they're far too old for this kid, no matter his age. Fact is, they'd look out of place on anyone; there's no one old enough on the planet to've earned a gaze like that. 

Clara swallows, takes her time: she refills Earl and Larry's coffees, clears their empty plates off the bar, then gets the water and two straws. She takes a deep breath before she goes over to the corner booth, has to give herself a strong kick in the butt. That family doesn't deserve the way she feels. It's late, she's tired, and she's been fighting off this cold or whatever it is for weeks now. Maybe it's time to go to the doctor, especially if it's making her strung-out enough to be scared of a little kid. 

She puts the glass down halfway between the two boys, gives them each a straw, and asks, "You guys know what you want?" 

The dad looks at the older kid, Dean, and Dean says, "Yeah. Can I have the everyday special number two, please?" 

"Lot of food," Clara says, but she's smiling so she hopes Dean knows she's joking. "You been saving room for all that?" 

"Sam and I'll share," Dean says. "He's in the mood for waffles tonight." 

Clara never heard them exchange words. There was no conversation. The little kid, Sam, hasn't even opened his mouth the whole time he's been inside. 

The dad sighs, says, "Sam," and then stops, takes a deep breath, looks up at Clara. "If there's a charge to split the meal, that's fine," he tells her. "And I'll have three eggs, scrambled, wheat toast, side of bacon." Clara nods and the dad says, "Thanks," with such exhausted appreciation that Clara wonders how long it's been since their last meal. 

She takes the menus, puts them away before she goes back behind the bar. Clara keeps one eye on the table as she scrawls the order on a ticket and hands it back to Tommy, the line cook. He takes it, looks happy for something to do -- Earl and Larry ate two hours ago -- and gets started cooking. Clara busies herself with making sure the dishes are done, checking dates on pieces of pie, refilling some of the condiment holders, getting things in place for the morning crew.

The dad doesn't talk, content to tip his head back and close his eyes, apparently trusting his sons enough to feel like he can do that. The boys behave, earn that trust, sit still and don't say much. Actually, Clara doesn't hear them say anything, yet it looks like they're having an entire conversation, especially when Dean snorts and reaches out to ruffle Sam's hair and Sam scrunches up his nose, bats Dean's hands away. 

There. Clara saw that. Sam moved his lips. She didn't hear anything but she clearly saw him say something, and as she's standing there, trying to fit that in with the mental picture she's painted, Dean turns his head and looks at her. It's a little confrontational, a little suspicious, and Clara flushes as she turns, quickly. 

He had such a pretty smile earlier. 

Dean says something to his father and the dad nods, opens his eyes as Dean slides out of the booth and Sam follows on his heels. Clara watches them as they make their way to the restroom. They're walking in unison, right next to each other; every time they take a step, their fingers brush against each other's to the point where they might as well be holding hands. It's adorable, is what it is, and she gets the way Dean looked at her earlier. Sam's his little brother, his to protect, and she's not a threat but he doesn't know that, doesn't know her. 

"Ma'am," Dean says, as they pass, and Clara smiles back. 

They disappear into the restroom and Clara grabs the pot of coffee, takes it over and refills the dad's mug. "You have beautiful children," she says."How old are they?" 

"Thirteen and nine," he says, "though sometimes they act like sixteen year olds and sometimes like they're sixty." 

"I have a couple like that, too," Clara says. "They grew out of it when they got older, got out into the world. You just have to wait." 

The dad gives Clara a tight smile, says, "Yeah," but he doesn't believe her, not one bit. She's not offended -- everyone thinks they know their kids best, and his view of the future just doesn't line up with hers, plain and simple, nothing more than that.

"Food should be up in just a minute, hon," she says, and turns, nearly has a heart attack when she's face to face with the kids. "Hoo-boy," she says, one hand on her chest. "You boys are quiet as ghosts." 

Dean shrugs and Sam gets back in the booth, sits in the exact same place as before, his back precisely at the corner where the two walls meet. It's a little uncanny, sure, a little strange, but kids are kids and have their reasons -- whatever they are -- for doing just about everything. 

Clara gives Sam a smile and he narrows his eyes before he looks away, looks at Dean. Dean's puzzled, that much is clear to see, it's written all over his face, and Clara has no idea why. Is it because she smiled? Or is it because Sam didn't respond the way Dean expected? 

Either way, she doesn't have time to think about it because Tommy rings the bell three times, right in a quick staccato row. The first one makes her jump and the others are overkill, Tommy leaning over the window and laughing at her reaction. 

"Just you wait, Thomas Keith Mitchell," she says, walking to get the dishes. "I'll call your momma in the morning, tell her you were acting up." 

"Aw, Clara," Tommy whines. "Please don't. I ain't lookin' to get switched again." 

There's a flash of movement at that, from the corner booth, and Clara loads the tray up slowly, gets syrup for Sam with one eye on the booth. She's not sure what they heard or why they reacted, but when she gets to the table, Dean's got his jaw clenched and Sam's scooted away from the corner a little, enough to lean into Dean, put his hand on Dean's thigh. 

"Special two," she says, sliding one plate in front of Dean, the waffles in front of Sam, setting the syrup down as well and trying not to feel like she's tempting a rabid dog when her hands are near them -- she's not sure which is the dog, though, and which one's holding the leash. Maybe a little of both. "And breakfast for dad," she says, putting the last two plates on the table. 

"John," the dad says. "Just John." 

Clara smiles, says, "Well, 'Just John,' is there anything I can get for you or your boys?" Clara looks the table over as John and Dean both say no and Sam watches her. She only sees one straw in the water glass, says, "Oh, I thought I," and then stops, because the other straw is there, right where she put, by Sam's utensils. So the kids share more than just food, huh. Talk about an overprotective older brother. Clara's not sure if Sam likes that or just accepts it, and she wonders about that as Earl and Larry call her over to the register. 

She checks them out, jokes with them, but keeps one eye on the family. Clara almost thinks about asking her regulars to stay because she's feeling a little off-balance, but that's ridiculous, there's nothing wrong with those boys, nothing at all. Except then Earl and Larry leave, arguing with each other, and she glances over to see Dean feeding Sam. 

Literally feeding him. 

Dean's cutting up the waffles, pouring the syrup on them -- not drenching, like some kids, but just enough to stir up some sweetness -- and then stacking up a couple pieces onto his fork and holding it out for Sam to eat. Dean takes turns, a bite of eggs and sausage for him and a bite of waffle for his brother, and he sips the water before offering the glass to Sam, though he holds the glass while Sam sips, too. 

That's -- Clara's concerned. Sam's nine, John said, and if he's still not capable of feeding himself, or if he is but chooses not to, there's a problem. It's not her place, she reminds herself, and goes back to the kitchen to make sure Tommy's not doing anything he shouldn't be. 

\--

She checks on them a couple times, mostly just calling out from behind the bar to see if they need anything, and it's about twenty minutes later when John replies, "Just the check, please." Clara nods, smiles, brings it over, and John says, "Oh, I wanted to ask. We're not from around here and I'm trying to get to my sister's before her kid's big game tomorrow. Do you know which direction _christo_ \--"

\--

"-- _quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum suum vocare dignatus est, ut fiat_ \--"

\--

Screaming. Someone's screaming. It's -- everything hurts and she can't breathe and there's something in her eyes and the _screaming_ , make it stop, please, make it stop. 

\--

"-- _uperbissimum caput tuum a primo instanti immaculatae suae conceptionis in sua humilitate contrivit. Imperat tibi_ \--" 

\--

A voice, sounds like hers but she -- it's not her, not her saying those awful, awful things and she didn't do that, she didn't, and she can't -- she can't -- 

\--

"-- _Vade satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae_ \--"

\--

Everything _burns_.

\--

Clara wakes up with a gasp. One hand goes to her throat, the other to her temple. She can't -- it was black -- she must have fainted, that's the only explanation, or maybe a heart attack, Doc Brown did say her cholesterol was a little high. 

Except then she opens her eyes. The diner is empty but the smell of rotten eggs permeates everything, and there's water on the floor. She must've dropped a glass -- a refill for that family that was in here. There was a family, right? Lord above, her head aches. 

"Tommy?" she calls out. There's no response so Clara stands up, unsteady on her feet, and feels a twinge on the inside of her left thigh. Maybe she hit the corner of a table when she passed out, or pulled something going down, she's no spring chicken and she's lucky a fall like that didn't break a hip. "Tommy? Better not be messing with me, I think I -- I think I need some help." 

No response. 

Clara has to hold onto tables and chairs, the bar and the wall, as she makes her toward the kitchen. There's no noise, not even the radio Tommy snuck in that he thinks Clara doesn't know about. She swallows, mouth dry, so dry, and shakes her head. Everything hurts. 

"Tommy?" she tries once more, then gets to the kitchen and feels like she might faint again. 

Blood. So much blood. And pieces of -- 

Clara drops to her knees, vomits, because that's Tommy, oh god, his mother's going to kill her, god, Lord Jesus, please, that's _Tommy_. 

"What happened?" she gasps, praying for an answer, for a miracle, for _anything_ , but the diner is silent and God's not responding. "What happened?" she asks again, lost, so lost and confused. 

\--

That's how the county sheriff finds her, three hours later after the first of the morning breakfast rush came in and called for help: Tommy Mitchell ripped to ribbons and Clara Nebworth rocking back and forth on the kitchen floor in a mess of blood and vomit, eyes wide but vacant, her mind broken beyond repair. 

All she says, for the rest of her life, is "What happened?"


	3. Ellen Harvelle (Ages 17 & 13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John called, she should have said no.

"Don't hang up, Ellen, please." 

She wants to, god, she wants to so badly but there's a tinge to John Winchester's voice that Ellen can recognise -- bone-deep exhaustion, worry down to the marrow, halfway begging. Ellen lets out a sigh, rolls her eyes and rests against the bar. Her eyes search for Jo, find her daughter at the pool table, and Jo might not be that much taller than the table herself but she can pull off some impressive trick shots. Just like her daddy. 

Which brings her back to John. "What?" she asks, tone of voice so far beyond cold it goes to glacial. This is the man responsible for her husband's death. This is the man who uses her for intel and advice, shows up in that old Impala and leaves again in a cloud of dust. Every time she talks to John, she hates him a little bit more, and every time she sees him, she wakes up crying. 

"It's m'boys," John says. 

Ellen wishes that changed anything but it doesn't. Those kids are just like John: all self-interest, self-preservation, no concern for anyone but each other. She might not hate them but to say she's not a fan is an understatement. 

Last time John dropped by the Roadhouse, Sam and Dean came inside with him, stood near the door, backs to the wall, shoulder-to-shoulder while she and John talked. Ellen had watched them, kept an eye on them because teenage boys, who knows what kind of trouble they might get into, and at first she'd been impressed. They kept still, didn't say a word or hardly move a muscle, and Ellen found herself reluctantly approving of John's parenting, if this was how his boys behaved in public. 

The longer they were there, though, the more she expected anything, from fingers twitching to shifting on their feet, maybe elbowing or poking each other with how close they're standing together. It's not natural for boys to be that statue-like -- even if they both look like they could've been models for sculptors; shit but they're mesmerising. 

Dean'd grown into his attitude and he'd watched her, smile moving up one corner of his mouth, and he hardly blinked. Ellen looked at him, got the feeling that his muscles were tensed, coiled, ready to leap the moment someone gave the word. He looked _hungry_ for it, a glitter in his eyes that Ellen's only seen on the most vicious and depraved hunters that drop by the Roadhouse once and are never invited back. 

Sam, next to Dean, pressed up right alongside his big brother, was less -- feral, really, is the only word Ellen can come up with for Dean. Sam had the same kind of glitter in his eyes but those eyes of his were old and full of disdain, hunger barely shining through like he's got it under control but could snap at any moment. He was still small, vaguely androgynous in a way Ellen couldn't put her finger on, hadn't hit his growth spurt yet, but between the eyes and the perfectly blank expression on his face, he was just as bad as Dean. 

She didn't want them around her daughter, didn't want to be around them herself, and she let out a sigh of relief when she saw the back of those three, threw back a shot of her strongest whiskey when she heard the Impala start up and leave. 

"What about 'em?" Ellen asks. She has a sinking feeling in her gut, has an idea of what John's gonna ask her, and she wants a way to say no, she does, but christ, they're just kids. Sam's barely a teenager, Dean not even legal yet for all the weapons and booze he carries and drinks. She can't -- no matter how much she wants to, she can't say no. 

"There's a hunt out Memphis-way," John says. Ellen closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose. "It's some kind of spirit that targets siblings, especially siblings with close bonds. I can't take 'em with me, Ellen; they'd be prime targets and I never use my kids as bait."

_Used my husband as bait_ , Ellen wants to say, but she bites her bottom lip until it's bleeding, the rich, bitter tang of metal and salt filling her mouth. 

"Shouldn't take long," John goes on. "Got a lead on its anchor. I just need a place for Sam and Dean to wait a couple days while I go take care of it." 

"And a motel room suddenly isn't good enough?" Ellen asks. She can't hold back all of the anger, all of the accusation, and figures she might as well just keep going, says, "Or one of those crappy little places you rent a month at a time? Why now, John? Why am I suddenly on your babysitter list? Everyone else busy?" _Everyone else know what curse follows the Winchester family around, that everyone they know ends up dying_? 

John's quiet for long enough that Ellen half-wonders if he hung up on her -- or if she should hang up on him. "No," he finally says. "Not busy. If you don't wanna take 'em, that's fine, I understand. I was just hoping that -- y'see, without their mom -- and I know Dean's almost an adult so I shouldn't try and -- fuck. Look, Ellen, I'm worried about them, okay? I don't know why and I don't know what to do about it. They talk to me but they never tell me anything, y'know?"

Ellen's gaping and it takes serious effort to ask, "You want me to _mother_ them?" 

"No," John says, instantly. "It's too late for that; I should've gotten a strong woman in their lives much earlier than this. No, I was -- shit, I feel bad for saying this about my own kids but -- Ellen, you can read people. You have to, living the kind of life you do with the clientele you serve. You're one of the canniest people I've ever met."

"And you want me to take a look at your boys and tell you what's wrong with them," Ellen says. She whistles, says, "Those kids've been off for a long time, John. Why bother now?"

John lets out a breath. "I dunno," he says. "I guess -- I've been thinking about letting 'em go off on their own, lately. Dean's old enough and Sam's smart enough, I know they'd do good even though I hate the idea of them hunting without backup. Dean's already got his diploma and Sam's thirteen but he's not far away from it, too, and I just." 

He stops there. Ellen thinks she gets it, guesses and asks, gently, "You don't want to be around them any more than you have to, do you? They spook you. And you're their _father_."

"Something's changed the last couple years," John says. "They're not the boys I remember. I've given 'em holy water, had them both practice the rites of exorcism out loud, they've been scratched by iron and silver, don't react to blessed thistle, can cross salt. They're still mine, they're just." 

"Something else, too," Ellen says. Jesus. To feel that way about your own sons -- she might hate John Winchester with every fibre of her being, but she'd never wish something like that on a parent, especially a parent who loves his kids as much as John loves Sam and Dean. Well, god damn it. Regretting her words even as she says them, she tells John, "Bring 'em by. Three nights tops, y'hear? If you're not back for them by noon on the fourth day, I'm gonna kick 'em out and let 'em fend for themselves." 

John laughs; the sound of it makes Ellen's clit throb. Just because she hates the man, would love to see him dead at her own hands, doesn't mean she can't recognise he's handsome, probably knows his way around a woman when he lets go enough to seek one out. "I understand," he says. "And I appreciate it, Ellen, I really do." 

"You owe me," she tells him, and then gets the satisfaction of hanging up on him. 

\--

For the next day or so, Ellen picks up the phone, starts dialling John's number, and hangs up again about three times an hour. The more she thinks about it, the more she doesn't want the Winchester boys around her daughter. Jo's young and impressionable and she's going to fall for Dean's cocky strut without noticing the prowling, the colour of his eyes without noticing the appetite they hold. 

That would be bad enough, just having Dean in her Roadhouse, but she's spent time talking to Caleb and Bobby and Jim over the years and they all tell her, always have, that Sam's the unknown element in the pair. Sam, raised by Dean on the road, fluent in Latin, Greek, and medieval French by the time he was seven, keeping up with Dean's schoolwork to the point that he's just a couple grades away from high school graduation by thirteen, Sam with his terrifyingly empty and endless eyes, with the way he can incite some of the toughest hunters to shiver just by _looking_ at them. Dean might be a sociopath but he's never been able to hide it the way Sam can.

Maybe having Jo fixate on Dean is a good thing -- the best possible outcome Ellen could hope for. Everyone's said that Dean is practically obsessed with his little brother, doesn't notice that there's anyone else in the world unless they get between the two, and he wouldn't even see a little scrap of a girl like Jo. 

"Can't believe I'm gonna do this," she says over a half-empty bottle of whiskey and her cell phone. She stares at the phone, urges it to ring, to be John telling her that someone else is taking care of the spirit or that he's decided to leave the boys in whatever city they're currently holed up in, but she falls asleep that night at her desk, head pillowed on her arms, phone still unused. 

\--

The next morning, Ellen cooks Jo's breakfast and then sits down across the table from her daughter. 

"Aren't you gonna eat, momma?" Jo asks, frowning as she notices the lack of food at Ellen's place. 

"No, baby," Ellen says. "I was pretty hungry when I woke up so I had a snack then." There's no way to tell her girl that Ellen's too nervous, too keyed-up to keep food down, that her stomach's rumbling too much with nerves and second-guesses to let anything else in. "I need to tell you some things while you eat, okay? But you need to listen to me, and Joanna Beth Harvelle, if you disobey, I will find out and I will not be happy." 

Jo blinks, sets her fork down. "I ain't in trouble, am I?" she asks slowly, hesitantly. 

If this was any other morning, Ellen might follow that up, ask if Jo _should_ be in trouble for something -- but it's not any other morning. It's this morning and according to John's text, they'll be at the Roadhouse in a few hours, just in time for lunch. She takes a deep breath and says, "We're going to have some guests the next few days." 

"Hunters?" Jo asks, perking up. "Who? Will I get to meet them? What are they like? Did they know dad?" 

The mention of Bill sends a pang through Ellen's heart and a flood of guilt through her body. Taking in the sons of her husband's killer -- what the fuck is she thinking. 

"Their dad did," Ellen says, "and he's a hunter. His kids, Sam and Dean, are gonna be staying with us for a few days while their daddy goes to deal with a spirit in Memphis. Sam's a little older than you, and Dean's a few years older than Sam. I know you're curious about them already but I need you to listen to me, Jo: you don't get close to those boys, all right? Nothing but trouble, the whole family, and I don't need to lose -- I don't want you getting hurt." 

Jo thinks about that for a second, finally asks, "Why would they hurt me?" 

Ellen has to think about that, because how do you honestly explain something like the Winchester boys to a young girl and not scare her into nightmares? "Something happened to their mom when they were little," she finally says. "They're not used to being around other people, especially people who aren't hunters like them."

"Maybe they just need someone to be nice to them," Jo says. 

"Don't you dare, Jo," Ellen says. "You keep your distance, all right? Someday I'll explain it to you but until then, don't even -- just stay as far away from them as you can. Understand?" 

Jo's got a stubborn look in her eyes but she gets that from Ellen; Ellen waits her out, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, and Jo finally drops her eyes, mutters, "Yes, ma'am," and goes back to eating her breakfast. 

\--

When the Winchesters arrive, Ellen's heart sinks. She should've said no. She should've gotten Jo as far away from the Roadhouse as possible. She should've expected this; it's been a couple years and Ellen's been thinking of them as kids, as they were back then. They've grown, though, and Dean's pretty enough to draw in anyone with those green eyes of his, the constellation of freckles over the bridge of his nose, the way he's wearing John's leather jacket and leaning against the wall. Sam's gotten older, not much taller yet, but there's a depth to his eyes that wasn't there before, looks so much older than his age as he takes in the furniture, the books and photos and knick-knacks on the shelves, the block of kitchen knives. He's seeing everything, making judgments, getting ideas, Ellen can tell, and when he's done, when he turns to her, his face is perfectly blank, even the inhuman gleam in his eyes shuttered behind a wall. 

These aren't boys. These are _animals_. She looks at John, opens her mouth to tell him no, to tell him that she can't, that she's changed her mind, but his eyes are pleading with her. She deflates, just like that. 

"I should get on the road," John finally says. "You boys mind Ms. Harvelle this weekend, understand?" 

Dean and Sam reply together, say, "Yes, sir," in unison. "Happy hunting," Sam adds, right before Dean says, "Be safe," like this is how they always send off their father, like he leaves so often that they have a ritual that they don't even have to think about anymore. 

"I'll be back for 'em before you know it," John says, turning away from his kids, toward Ellen. "Call me if you need to." Ellen nods and John grins at her, a tiny smirk, that instantly sets Ellen's nerves on edge. "Thanks again, Ellen." 

John leaves, taking that monster of a car with him, and Ellen looks at Sam and Dean, standing in the doorway, so close they're touching, duffels at their feet. "You boys hungry?" she asks. "I put on a pot of soup earlier and there's some bread, too. Go wash up while I get the table set." 

They disappear just like that, take their bags with them and drop them outside of the bathroom, sounds like they go in together. 

Strange -- just like everything else about those two.

\--

Ellen calls Jo down to lunch and sets her up with soup and a couple buttered slices of bread before going back over to the stove. Sam comes into the kitchen next and he slides onto a chair without a word. Ellen fills up a bowl with her thick chicken vegetable soup and puts it down in front of him. 

"No, thank you, Ms. Harvelle," Sam says, so quietly that Ellen thinks she misheard him. 

She's just about to ask why not, if Sam doesn't like chicken or he's still full from whatever breakfast he ate earlier, but then Dean walks in with a baggie in one hand. He gives it to Sam, ruffles his hand through Sam's hair, then sits down. "Looks great, Ms. Harvelle," Dean says, taking Sam's bowl for himself. "Thanks for lunch." 

Ellen just nods as she fills up a bowl for herself and then sits down at the table, completes this very, very strange foursome. She watches as Jo keeps looking at Dean when she should be eating and bites back a sigh at the stars in Jo's eyes. Girl's gonna get her heart broken but good by that boy and Ellen will thank a god she doesn't believe in if that's all that gets broken. 

Sam's eating the sandwich -- ham and cheese, it looks like, nothing special apart from the bread it's on, maybe homemade or one of those fancy bakery loaves -- and keeping his eyes fixed on the table. Dean, on the other hand, is full of chatter, nothing serious or too in-depth but asking what it's like to run the Roadhouse, what some of the other hunters are like, why she decided to open up a hunter-friendly bar, things like that. He's charming, that's for sure, but it's clear that he doesn't really care. The only thing he cares about is Sam, making sure Sam's eating, checking to be sure Sam's had enough. 

Dean leans back in his chair once he's practically licked the bowl clean, puts his hands on his belly and smiles, closing his eyes. 

"You want some more, Dean?" Ellen asks, and she has to tear her eyes away from the picture he makes to start clearing the table. 

"No, ma'am, thank you," Dean replies. "That was amazing." 

Ellen smiles, a quirk of her lips that she has to force, and she's debating her next step when she decides, figures it might be better for Jo to figure out what these kids are as fast as possible, to learn that she has no place in their world. 

"Take 'em up to the guest room," Ellen tells her daughter, hoping that she hasn't just made a horrible mistake. 

\--

Lunch was a strange affair, all told, Ellen thinks as she's doing up the dishes. The way Sam refused her food but ate a room temperature ham and cheese sandwich instead and looked happy about it, the way Dean acted like that was normal, the way Sam kept one wary eye on her and Jo the entire time he chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed. Sam and Dean didn't exchange one word through lunch and Ellen wonders if that's normal, too, even if she thinks that there were other conversations going on in the room. There were times she could have sworn that Sam reacted to Dean's comments in a way that actually _said_ something based on how Dean responded. 

Strange, all too strange, and her mind goes back to that moment when Dean walked into the kitchen with a baggie in his hand. Dean was prepared. He knew, somehow, that Sam wouldn't eat the soup even though neither of them knew what kind it would be beforehand. And Sam could've had the bread, at least; he ate the entire sandwich so Ellen knows it's not that he doesn't like bread. 

That smile on Sam's face, the way Dean touched him, the tension in Dean's muscles, she thinks, a response to the wariness in Sam's -- and then it hits her. Sam wouldn't eat her food because he doesn't trust her. She pauses in the middle of cleaning the cutting board, letting her hands fall still in the hot water. It's awful, a thirteen-year-old who's so suspicious of the entire world that he'll only eat what he can trust and the only person's judgment he trusts on _that_ is his brother's. 

What's happened to Sam to damage him to that extent? And why does Dean go along with this? It must be hard, especially with the life they lead, always on the road eating diner food and pizza and take-out day after day -- she can't believe John allows this. 

Ellen can't stop thinking about it, mind caught up in the implications of a Sam Winchester trained to hunt by his father but dismissive of the entire world, with an older brother who holds his leash but can't hold back his own need for blood and violence. The world's not ready for this. The world will never be ready for this, and neither will Ellen. 

The back door slams open and Ellen turns around, drops the knife she's been using to slice lemons. Jo's stumbling into the kitchen, her breath a mess of high, pained wheezes, one arm cradled protectively to her chest. "Oh, god," Ellen says; there's a ragged gash in Jo's palm, blood dripping everywhere -- by the colour it's already dyed Jo's skin, she's lost a lot -- and Jo's face is slick with tears and snot. 

Ellen moves fast, grabs a bottle of something, doesn't matter, and a kitchen towel, goes over to her daughter and catches Jo just as she's collapsing to her knees. Pale face, no colour in her cheeks, and a distant, half-broken look in her eyes -- Jo's going into shock. 

"Come on, baby girl," Ellen tells her, pulling Jo close and dousing the wound with everclear before wrapping the towel around Jo's hand and pressing tight. Jo screams at the disinfectant and then shudders at the pressure but Ellen holds her through it, slightly relieved that Jo's still aware enough to react, much too guilty for putting her baby through that kind of pain. "Come on, Jo-Jo. What happened? Tell momma what happened." 

"Don't -- don't know," Jo says, gasping through her tears. "Hurts. Mom, it hurts, please," and then she passes out in Ellen's lap. 

\--

The next few minutes are a blur. She must call an ambulance because one shows up within minutes, paramedics taking Jo, asking Ellen what happened and what first aid she performed, if any. Ellen tells them, can't feel a thing, can't hold any thoughts in her head, and she wonders if _she's_ going into shock now. The paramedics take Jo away and tell Ellen to meet them at the hospital, that she can't ride with them because there's no room and they need to try and stabilise Jo right away, she doesn't need to see that. By the time Ellen's worked up the mental capacity to argue, the ambulance is gone. 

"Everything all right?" 

Ellen jumps. She's completely forgotten about the Winchester boys; she needs to -- wait. Ellen looks at them, takes in the casual concern on Dean's face that looks real even if the smirk playing on his lips means he's faking it. It's Sam, though, that scares her, Sam with his dispassionate curiosity, the way he's leaning into Dean as if to say that Dean is _his_ , those gorgeous hazel eyes holding enough cruelty in their depths to drown a person. 

They did this. They did this to Jo, they did this to her _baby_ , and she's reaching for a gun before she even realises. Dean notices, though, and steps in front of Sam, cocks his head. "You wouldn't really shoot us, would you, Ellen? We're just _kids_." 

"Nothing 'kid' about you two," she snaps back. She's got the gun in her hands but it's aimed at the floor as she watches Dean shift on his feet, aching for a fight. He's got to be armed, Ellen doesn't know with what, and she's good but she knows without a shadow of a doubt that she doesn't hold a candle to either of them. "Go upstairs, get packed. You got three minutes and then you're out, y'hear me? I'll call your daddy, tell him to turn around and pick you up, but you're not gonna stay a second longer in my house than that." 

Dean smiles at her, says, "I really don't know what we did to deserve to this, Ellen," but he listens, ushers Sam past Ellen with one hand low on Sam's back. As they pass her, Dean keeping his eyes on her the entire time, she smells something -- strange. She sets down the gun, picks up the phone, and realises: blood and come. 

Oh god, if they so much as -- there's no way they would've done that to Jo, is there? They're monsters but even monsters draw the line at raping a child. 

Don't they? 

She calls John and when he picks up, she says, "Get your ass back here, John Winchester and get these goddamned boys of yours before I kill 'em. They'll be on the porch." Ellen hangs up on John, grabs her purse, her keys, checks to see she has her insurance card, and makes sure the two boys are out of her house before she locks the door behind her, heads for the car and doesn't look back, feels eyes on her the entire time. 

She's got to focus on Jo, has to get to Jo, so Ellen bites back the need to wring every drop of life from the two kids behind her and swears to herself that she'll see them dead someday, them and their daddy -- no matter what it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave prompts for more in the comments!


	4. Josiah Campbell (Ages 11 & 7)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They always scout out the cousins before inviting them to join the family.

"And?"

Lynn shakes her head. "For being as young as they are, they're good," she says. "I don't know how John's done it. The oldest is a crack shot with pretty much every kind of gun and holds knives like he was born with them in his hands. I haven't met a hunter yet who's that comfortable with such a wide range of weapons and I have a feeling Dean's already got the idea that _everything_ can be a weapon if he's clever enough to use it right. And he is clever enough, Josiah. He's more than clever enough."

"What about Sam?" Josiah asks. As good as Lynn says Dean is, they all have high hopes for Sam; how could they not when this was the son Mary chose to give her father's name?

"He speaks three languages already," Lynn says, tone flat. " _Besides_ English." 

Josiah frowns, says, "Sam's only seven, right? Huh." He glances over into the living room, where Gwen is very determinedly trying to shove a round block into a square hole. Knowing his daughter, she might actually be able to. Gwen's nothing if not determined; that's one Campbell quality she's inherited in spades. "What else?" 

"I just -- there's something off about them," Lynn says. "You should go see 'em, get a feel for 'em. John's obsessed with the demon; I don't know how much use it'd be trying to get him involved. He barely spends any time with the boys so he's not doing anything to help them, if he even realises anything's wrong. He may not. He may just see Mary in them."

And they all knew that Mary was not the most stable Campbell around. If John sees her in the way those kids look, that's one thing. If he's not taking them to hand because they remind him of her in a deeper way, that's something entirely different.

"If Dean and Sam don't grow out of whatever's wrong with them," Lynn goes on, "we'll want to stay as far away as possible. Even from a distance, they don't seem like the kind of kids now, at this age, who'll be excited if long-lost family just suddenly shows up. Ten years down the line? I _really_ don't think so." 

"They're just kids, Lynn," Josiah says. His cousin's always been the best at reading people, has practically made an art form of it, that's why they send her to scope out the third and fourth cousins. She's never come back with a report like this. "You're sure?" 

Lynn shrugs one shoulder. "As sure as I ever am. You want a second opinion, you go and see 'em for yourself. But make sure you stay back; Dean's got his granddaddy's sense when it comes to being tracked." She shakes her head then stands, stretches, says, "Anyway, I gotta go pick Christian up from the sitter. Let me know if you need me to watch Gwen, 'kay?" 

Josiah nods, says, "I will, thanks." 

\--

Five weeks later, Josiah shows up on Caleb Johnson's front porch at precisely eleven o'clock in the morning. He knows _of_ Caleb, of course, everyone in the hunting community does, but none of their clan has ever come face-to-face with Caleb before and they hadn't ever planned on it. The Campbells haven't lived this long by making friends -- friends mean connections and connections mean people know they're around, know their business, know _them_ \-- but the second word got back to him that John Winchester was dropping his boys off at Caleb's for a couple weeks, Josiah made some calls. 

It was difficult to get an order placed with Caleb but Josiah's using the name 'Joseph Mulligan,' an alias a few of the Campbells trade use of, a guy on the edge of the community that no one really knows anything about but everyone agrees must be okay if he's lasted this long. It's not much to go on, especially facing someone as cautious as a hunter arm's dealer, but it does mean there are a few others out there who'll be able to give Caleb a little assurance in case he wants a reference or two. Caleb does send out feelers before he talks to Josiah, but apparently trusts his contacts enough to finally take Josiah's order and tell him to come pick it up when it's ready. 

Most importantly, using 'Joseph Mulligan' means there's no way to connect any of the Campbells to this visit just in case Caleb or the boys say something to John, who would definitely raise hackles at the idea of a hunter with the same last name as his dead wife visiting his friend and getting a look at his boys. John might be half-insane but he's not stupid -- and neither is Josiah.

Fake IDs, aliases, assumed identities: It's a certain brand of paranoia, sure, but the Campbells haven't lasted this long by being sloppy. 

Josiah rings the doorbell, puts on his best tired-but-friendly smile when the door opens and he's standing across from a man whose descriptions don't do him justice. 

Caleb Johnson, one of the best in their business, on the dealing and hunting sides, is _young_. No one ever mentioned that.

"Help you?" Caleb asks, frown-lines of caution etched all over his face. 

"Joe Mulligan," Josiah says, nodding at Caleb -- hunters don't shake hands. "Here to pick up the stuff, if it's ready." 

The door's open but not much, and Caleb's standing in the opening like he's trying to hide whatever's inside from Josiah. "Not really a good time right now," Caleb says. "Can you come back in a couple days?" 

Josiah's about to respond but there's the thump- _twang_ of a knife hitting wood and sticking. He barely resists the urge to flinch; that blade came close to landing in his ear rather than the door. Josiah looks slightly to the left, sees the knife -- still vibrating -- deep in the door not two inches away from his face. _Dangerously_ close, then. 

Caleb drops his shoulders, lets the door creak open as he lifts his eyes to the heavens as if asking for patience. "Boys," he says. "What did I tell you?" 

Josiah turns slowly, feels his heart catch in his throat, stop beating and block him from breathing as he lays eyes on Dean and Sam. Jesus. Mary was beautiful and she had fire, sure, but there was always something slightly manic, something a little _off_ behind her eyes, and everyone figured the tight rein her daddy kept on her was a good thing, all told. Her kids have her looks and her fire, judging by the first glance Josiah has of them, but there's no denying that Dean inherited more than his fair share of the mania and and it's obvious there's no one holding that leash except the kid by his side. Sam -- Sam's got _nothing_ behind his eyes, no heart, no heat, nothing.

"Not to throw the knives except at targets," Sam says. There's a slight moue of distaste playing about his lips, a wrinkle to the nose of dispassionate disagreement. Josiah doesn't like to swear -- Gwen has a tendency to repeat everything he says -- but _fuck_ if that kid doesn't give him chills. How in the -- who would -- why can't -- what is John _doing_. "And to stay inside today." 

"Sorry, Caleb," Dean says, though it's obvious he doesn't mean the apology at all. "Sam wanted to get some fresh air." He wraps an arm around Sam's shoulders, looks down, says, _Didn't you, sweetheart_?

Josiah gets chills and he has to fight the urge to run, has to plant his feet and lock his knees, focus on maintaining his breathing. It's a damn good thing Lynn never got this close, never got close enough to listen to them. She would've gone after them both then and there. 

There was so much in those three words: so much adoration, so much amusement, so much love. And the nickname, christ. There's no reason for an eleven-year-old to call his little brother 'sweetheart,' especially with the emotion Dean managed to imbue in the pet name, all fire and possession and slavish devotion. 

Sam looks up at Dean, smiles, a real smile, a true smile, one that fills his face, comes from every part of him, though the expression dims by the time he looks back at Caleb, shrugging one shoulder and somehow managing to use the action to slide closer to Dean, plaster himself to Dean's side until there's no space between them. "Sorry, Caleb. My fault." 

"Well," Caleb says. Josiah doesn't want to turn his back on the kids -- they aren't kids; he doesn't know how to describe them but 'ghost-quiet' and 'intimidatingly sure of themselves' come to mind -- so he steps to the side, enough so that he can keep his eyes on the boys but also see Caleb. The corner of Caleb's mouth quirks up as if he knows exactly what Josiah's doing. "Since you already met 'em, you might as well come in," Caleb tells Josiah. "Stay for lunch, too, if you wanna." 

"Sure," Josiah says. "That'd be great." 

He's here to get the measure of Mary's kids, sure, but there's nothing he wants to do less than eat with them. 

\--

Caleb's place is carefully curated chaos, that's the best way to describe it. It's a small one-story house with hallways narrowed in by weapons- and ammo-crates, stacked in between piles of books as tall as Josiah. Josiah sure as hell doesn't touch anything but he scans the names of those books, can't help letting out a whistle when he lays eyes on what looks like an original copy of the _Disputes et Discours des Illusions et Diables_ sitting on top of the pile right outside the kitchen.

"Just borrowing it for a while," Caleb says, when Josiah asks about it. Caleb's throwing some sandwich fixin's on the table, grabbing potato salad from the fridge and chips from the pantry, so he's not paying much attention to Josiah. At least, it doesn't look like he's paying much attention. Caleb's a hunter, been in the game a while -- he's probably all too aware of what Josiah's really asking. "It's a good reference but that ain't my kind of thing, usually. Got it from a friend to keep -- well." 

To keep Sam busy, Josiah guesses, if what Lynn said is true. Seven years old and he's already reading middle French. Seven years old and he's already reading Johann Weyer. Christ and angels above. 

"It's not bad," Dean says. Josiah jumps; he never heard the kids come into the house but they're both standing in the doorway to the kitchen, Sam leaning into Dean, Dean with a grin a shade too wide for comfort. "Pretty light on what those magicians did to become infamous, but I guess you can't ask for much." 

"How'd you find the verb tenses?" Josiah asks, taking a beer with a grateful nod when Caleb hands it over. "I struggle with modern French; middle French gets me all tangled up." 

Dean's grin gets toothier. "Ain't bad," he says. 

Not Sam, then. Or, maybe -- the two boys are exchanging looks, secret smiles of their own, an entire language in the way they look at each other, in the way Dean's grazing his fingers over the back of Sam's hand, in the way Sam's head is tilted up and to the side, baring his throat to his brother.

Josiah aches. Dean's the spitting image of his mother at that age. 

"Lunch, Dean," Caleb says, half a gruff order. "I got stuff for sandwiches out." 

"Thanks," Dean says. He ruffles Sam's hair, asks, _What're you in the mood for, Sammy?_

Sam looks up at Dean, then right at Josiah as he says, _Not hungry yet. Feed me later_?

 _Always_.

With that chilling exchange tucked in the back of his mind, Josiah sits down across from Caleb, watches as Sam disappears back down the hallway and Dean follows. 

\--

Lunch isn't anything fancy but the potato salad's got a nice kick to it and the lettuce and tomato are crisp enough to give the turkey and swiss a backbone. The bread's a little fancier than Josiah would've expected, something homemade, crusty on the outside and light as a feather inside. 

"Not mine," Caleb says, once Josiah compliments him on his baking. "Dean. Kid knows his way around a kitchen, that's for damn sure. Good thing, too." 

"Oh?" Josiah asks, one eyebrow raised. 

He's afraid, for a moment, that he's pushed his luck, gone too far, because Caleb levels a hard, searching look on him. The look fades quick, though; Josiah thinks that maybe Caleb's been aching for someone to talk to. 

"Sam," Caleb says. "He doesn't -- he only eats what Dean makes. Won't even let store-bought bread cross his lips." Caleb laughs, a short, painful little sound. "Dean doesn't mind it. At least, he doesn't act like he does. Fact is, he --." 

"He -- what?" Josiah asks, gently, carefully pushing. 

Caleb shakes his head. "Shines like the sun," he says. "Like he knows what kind of trust his little brother's offering up and treats it like it's as important as it is." 

Caleb seems content to go back to his food, having said his piece, but Josiah picks up his beer, sips carefully as he considers all Caleb said -- and didn't say. Dean knowing his way around a kitchen, that's a good thing, especially with as much as John's gone, means the boys won't be stuffing their gullets full of pizza and fast food and empty starches. Sam only eating what Dean feeds him, though -- Josiah remembers that question and answer from earlier -- that's slightly worrying. Sure, Dean might know what Sam likes best, but Caleb said 'trust' and that puts a different spin on things. That means Sam doesn't trust anyone but Dean. That means Sam trusts Dean to keep him alive.

That means John has no place in these boys' lives. 

If Josiah thought he could get away with it, he'd take them now, raise them in the family, give them a solid grounding and try to wean Sam off his brother. Dean's got too much of Mary in him to handle the weight of another person's life in his hands and Sam's too smart to waste on the kind of life John's got lined up. Sam might steady his brother, though; there was no one in Mary's life like Sam, no matter how much Samuel tried, those early years, and maybe it's helping. It sounds, though, like Sam's trained all of Dean's intensity into focusing on him -- and what that says about Sam, that the kid would like that, that the kid would do that and be _able_ that at such a young age, hoo boy. 

"It's not their fault," Caleb says, finally. He's picking at his potato salad, moving the chunks of dill to one side, separating out the onions and celery. Josiah guesses Dean made the potato salad, too -- and to his and Sam's liking, not to Caleb's. "Their daddy, he -- things could be easier, that's all I'm saying." 

"Oh, I thought they were yours," Josiah says, because 'Joseph Mulligan' wouldn't know who they are, what they are. "What about their mom?" Josiah asks. He steels himself for the answer, for whatever this stranger is about to say. 

Caleb shrugs. "Never met 'er," he says. "From the way John talks? She'd love the shit out of 'em no matter what." He looks up, adds, "Died in a fire. Sam wasn't even a year old."

"Has to be hard," Josiah says. "Takes its toll on a family." 

\--

The kitchen goes quiet after that. Caleb hands Josiah another beer, slices a piece of cake that takes Josiah's breath away, it's so good. About forty-five minutes after Josiah sat down for lunch, the boys come back to the kitchen, Dean first, Sam behind him, practically invisible in Dean's shadow until they come out of the hallway and into the kitchen. Sam sits down at the table; Caleb stiffens and Josiah's attention turns trigger-sharp. 

There's no conversation as Dean makes two sandwiches, one of them plain turkey with practically half a head of lettuce, one of them turkey and swiss with mustard and tomatoes; the sound of Dean humming fills the room. Sam's wary, hasn't relaxed at the table, and even though his eyes are fixed on Dean, Josiah would bet his life on that little kid being just as aware of him as he is of Sam. Dean brings the plate to the table -- one plate -- and adds a huge dollop of potato salad, sets the plate down in front of Sam.

Josiah's a little confused but the confusion drains away into -- horror is too strong a word, concern too light. Sam gets up, waits for Dean to take the chair he'd been sitting in, then perches sideways on Dean's lap, throws his legs over Dean's, leans into Dean's hold, rests one of his cheeks on Dean's shoulder, and takes the turkey-and-lettuce sandwich when Dean hands it over. 

_Eat up, Sammy_ , Dean tells his brother. As he's reaching for his own sandwich, Dean dances his fingertips over Sam's thighs and Sam -- Sam giggles, rubs his nose into Dean's neck like he's scenting him, scent-marking his own brother. 

"I'll get you your stuff," Caleb says. When Josiah rips his eyes away from Sam and Dean, looks at the hunter, Caleb's got the same expression in his eyes that Josiah must have in his own. 

\--

Lynn wraps her hands around her coffee cup, glances over at Gwen and Christian, colouring in the living room, before turning her full attention to Josiah. "Well? What'd you think?"

Josiah watches the steam rise from his coffee, rise and then dissipate into the air. "No contact," he says. "Absolutely _none_ from anyone in the family. If anyone has an issue with that, they can take it up with me."

"That's -- severe," Lynn says, sounds relieved but cautious. She sips her coffee, doesn't take her eyes off Josiah. 

"You were right," he tells her. "They're good but they're off." He thinks about that knife, about the look the boys exchanged as Dean handed Sam a plain old turkey sandwich, and can't help the shiver, the goosebumps rising on his arms, the knife-sharp chill that goes down his spine. "They only trust each other. And John's steady enough for now; taking the boys away from him might push him into the deep end."

Lynn reaches over, puts one hand on top of Josiah's. "We could bring all three of them in," she suggests. "I know we're not keen on John but we could give him help and back-up for his hunts, make sure he knows the boys have family apart from him. He might be willing to give the boys to family, especially if we're willing to watch them, teach them, train them."

Josiah shakes his head. "Not an option," he says, flatly.

Lynn studies him, reads every word he didn't say right out of his mind, the way she's been able to do since they were kids. The tension in her shoulders finally gives; she looks down at the table, says, quietly, "You saw it, too."

"Yeah," Josiah says. Lynn looks up at him, does him the honor of letting her true thoughts race across her expression, open and honest, not hiding a thing. "We can't bring the kids in," Josiah says. "We wouldn't --"

He stops but Lynn finishes his sentence. "We wouldn't survive." 

Josiah nods. "They only claim each other. Even John's something more distant than family. To find out we were here all this time and didn't do anything? Didn't help them sooner, didn't help John sooner? They'd kill us all. Gleefully."

"It's a shame," Lynn says, after a couple quiet minutes. "We could've used a pair like them." 

Used. Like they're tools waiting to be wielded, like they aren't children, like they aren't family.

But they're not family. And they never will be.


End file.
